


as soft and silent as memory

by roseweasley



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Epic — spanning years and continents; lives ruined and bloodshed, Eventual Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Eventual Smut, Eventual Vale Fic, F/M, Pre-Canon, retelling of canon events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseweasley/pseuds/roseweasley
Summary: Whatever was between Sansa and Jon had certainly been a superficial attachment, one they would both forget in due time.





	1. Ned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soapieturner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapieturner/gifts), [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts).



> Dedicated to — Mandy, my constant source of muse and who helped me and Ash plot this whole thing out. And to Mere, who has always encouraged my writing endeavours when I feel like giving up. And who me and Ash generally agree is the bae-est. Best girls.
> 
> Many thanks to Josiah who looked this chapter over for me.
> 
> kingsnow has written the short prologue and will write the Jon chapters, and roseweasley will be writing the Sansa chapters.

Snow was falling on the Eyrie.

Outside the flakes drifted down as soft and silent as memory. Was this what woke me? Already the snowfall lay thick upon the garden below, blanketing the grass, dusting the shrubs and statues with white and weighing down the branches of the trees. The sight took Sansa back to cold nights long ago, in the long summer of her childhood.

_— A Storm of Swords, Sansa VII_

* * *

 

 

Ned wakes before dawn on his last day at Winterfell. He was set to depart with the King and his daughters the next morning. It would be a long time before he returned to Winterfell once more. Years, for the journey was long and nearly impossible to manage in the winter, and the coming winter was said to be the longest one in centuries. He would have responsibilities in the south, responsibilities he was wary to take up, but ones he could not leave.

He has already said his goodbyes to his wife and sons. He has visited his ancestors in the crypts beneath the castle. With Ned leaving to the south, and Benjen returning to The Wall, there would be no Starks left to mourn them. He left flowers in front of Lyanna’s statue and remembered the promises he’d made her. Now he dons his cloak and heads to the godswood to pay tribute one last time. Soon he would be beyond where the Old Gods could protect him, but he could still pray for his family and for his people.

Lately, Ned has spent a lot of time thinking about the past. The Starks were surrounded by their history. The castle itself was thousands of years old, and the Godswood even older. The face of the Heart Tree had seen it all.

As he nears the clearing, Ned sees Jon kneeling before the heart tree in prayer.

It has been a little over a year since the eldest Stark children had gone south to the tourney at Riverrun. He’d almost refused Robb’s request. It reminded him too much of his own youth, of the tourney that started everything. The tourney that had been the end of all of them, all of them except Ned. Even Benjen, who’d been just a boy, had been so consumed by guilt over his small part in the near demise of House Stark that he’d chosen to exile himself rather than come home. Perhaps Benjen thought that Ned wouldn’t forgive him. Or perhaps he just couldn’t forgive himself. But his three eldest children had returned just over two moons later, safe and sound. His fears had been unfounded.

Or, that’s what he’d thought.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he was watching history repeat itself.

There had been hints of it during the few weeks Jon and Benjen had been back from The Wall for the King’s visit. Suddenly the melancholy that had consumed Sansa since they had returned from the tourney was cast in a new light.

She had barely left her room at first. She didn’t seem to eat enough since she refused most meals when they were sent to her room. Ned had the Manderly’s send him lemons from White Harbour at great personal expense but Sansa had only half heartedly nibbled on the lemoncakes. Cat told him not to worry, that girls often went through these sorts of moods. But still, Ned worried. He’d found her in the sept one day, alone and teary eyed. He’d asked her once more what was bothering her. “My heart is broken,” she’d declared.

Just young love, Cat had insisted when he told her about it later. Sansa was the sort of girl to get all sorts of notions in her head, spinning a flirtation into something much more tortured. She had her head in the clouds, and this was her first chance at adventure. She’d surely just imagined a love affair for herself.

Harmless.

Cat didn’t seem to remember that young love had almost been the end of his house only a generation prior.

But Ned remembers, and he thinks of the war and his sister in her bloody bed as Jon turns to look at him. He looks so much like Lyanna. Ned has never forgotten the vows he made her, they have haunted him for half a lifetime now, as did the rest of the dead. He has raised Jon as his son, among his own children. The arrangement had protected him from certain death. But he still wasn’t sure if he’d done enough. Would Jon truly have a life at The Wall? Was this what Lyanna would have wanted for her son? Had he let his sister down?

Ned had seen the somber way Jon looked at Sansa at her engagement feast, and the way Sansa had swallowed and looked down at her lap. Neither had spoken, but he’d suddenly felt as though he was interrupting a private moment.

  
And now the same melancholy is on Jon’s face and it all but confirms his fears.

“Father,” Jon says as he moves to his feet.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s no matter. I was just saying goodbye.”

“As am I. It will be a long time before I’m back.”

Jon nods. There is sadness in Jon’s long face, and Ned knows it’s not because Jon will miss him while he’s in King’s Landing. Benjen told him how difficult it had been for him at the wall. In truth, Ned hadn’t wanted him to go, though he realized now that it was probably the best place for him. It had been Jon’s decision to go, and even if he’d become weary of the Night’s Watch he’d pledged his life and honour to them anyway.

When Jon doesn’t say anything, Ned realizes that Jon had meant to slip away without saying farewell. Last time he’d refused to make a fuss, leaving the day after he returned home from the tourney and decling an escort. Ned hadn’t been able to make sense of it, but the reason for the urgency of it all was clear now.

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

The words hang heavy between them and Jon lowers his eyes.

He doesn’t blame them, not truly, for he knows the truth — in another lifetime, if things had been different, Ned would have happily have given his daughter away beneath this very tree. Jon had grown into a good and honourable man, there was nobody he would trust more with his daughter. But it could never be. Whatever had passed between Jon and Sansa needed to be over. They both knew it.

“Aye,” Jon says, with tired eyes.

It would be a long time until Ned would see Jon again. This boy who he loved as a son, who he would do anything to protect. Even hurt him, if need be. But there was little left to protect now, Jon was bound in service to the Night’s Watch. He needn’t torture himself.

“There’s something I should have discussed with you a long time ago,” Ned begins. He pauses, the secret stuck in his throat. He had kept it for so long it was difficult to form into words. Jon’s eyes are on him now, rapt. He surely knows it can only be one thing, the mother he has long wondered about. “I have raised you among my children as mine own son, but in truth you are not.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “Who am I, then, if not your son?” Jon asks, the hurt thick in his slightly raised voice.

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe. It was her dying wish that nobody ever knew who you were. You are my sister’s child.”

This secret has been heavy in his heart, a burden he carried alone for nearly two decades. But Ned feels no joy in having told Jon. There is nothing but pain and disbelief on his face. He’d wanted to gain a mother, not lose a father.

“And my father?” Jon asks, his voice heavier.

Jon has heard the stories of Lyanna’s abduction. It had torn the realm apart, it had made Ned Lord of Winterfell and installed his old friend on the throne in place of Jon’s own father. Ned had no pity for Rhaegar Targaryen, and after twenty years he had not softened to the man who had shirked his duty. In her last moments, Lyanna had told him she ran away. That she went willingly. But Ned had to kill half a dozen Kingsgaurd to see her. She’d been crying out his name, happy to see him before it was too late.

Ned merely nods.

“I’m an orphan, then.” Jon looks to the ground and exhales a pent up breath. He makes to leave but Ned reaches his hand out and takes Jon’s shoulder in his hand.

Jon had always been more like Ned than any of his true born children. Jon was his blood, a Stark, a Northman, through and through. Words could not convey just how much the baby he’d brought home from the war meant to him. He belonged here with them, even if there was no place for him. Jon was all he had left of Lyanna, the only good to come out of that war.

“I will always be your father. And your mother... she died to bring you into this world. In the end, you were all she thought of. She loved you, truly.”

The words do not seem to truly sink in. Neither of them have ever been good with social graces, but what usually was easy camaraderie was now nothing but distant.

“I am meant to leave today for The Wall. I’m not First Ranger, nothing but a lowly steward. I have my duties to attend to. Goodbye, uncle.” Jon’s voice is cold but polite.

The next day, when Ned sets off to King’s landing with the rest of the King’s court, he notices Sansa’s eyes scanning the crowd of well wishers. All of her brothers stand there waving goodbye. So is most the castle and the nearby villagers, all eager for one last glimpse of their future queen. But it’s Jon she wants to see. Ned knows then that there had been no rush for Jon to return to The Wall. He just hadn’t wanted to watch her go.

Anxiety tightens in Ned’s chest as he watches Sansa’s face fall. But it doesn’t take long before she’s smiling merrily.

By evenfall she’s blushing at Joffrey’s sweet compliments. It had been her who had pushed for this marriage, who had wanted to go south and to be Queen one day. It had all been for the best. Whatever was between Sansa and Jon had certainly been a superficial attachment, one they would both forget in due time.

 


	2. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Arya get into an argument, and Sansa finds herself in a tricky situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you guys I would be writing Jonsa again! It took a while, but Lizzie and I are just SO inspired! 
> 
> A few notes on the ages:
> 
> Jon & Robb are both 18. Sansa is 15 and Arya is 13. 
> 
> Huge shoutout to the Wolfpack. There's no one I would rather go into battle with than you guys.
> 
> Illustration by [the-eagle-girl](http://the-eagle-girl.tumblr.com/post/166196617874/as-soft-and-silent-as-memory)

_**A year and a half earlier…** _

 

“Arya, give it _back!_ ” Sansa breathes through her nose, desperately trying to retain her composure. They were in _public,_ after all, and Arya was acting ridiculous as usual.

 

“I’m Lady Sansa,” Arya pulled Sansa’s scarf around her and did a twirl. “And I want to be Queen one day, so everyone will listen to me and do as I say.”

 

“ _Arya!”_ Sansa lunged for the scarf, but Arya ducked away just in time. _Arya Underfoot_ they called her, and for good reason.

 

“I’m the finest lady in all the land. I’m perfectly perfect--” Sansa made a grab for the scarf, but Arya held on so tight that it ripped.

 

“Look what you’ve done!” Sansa stomped her foot in frustration, tears pricking at her eyes. “This was a gift! Now it’s _ruined!_ ”

 

Arya, for her part, looked remorseful. “I didn’t mean--”

 

“You don’t _think!_ You _never_ think! You just do what you want!”

 

“I’ll fix it.”

 

“Fix it? _Fix_ it? You can’t even stitch straight with Septa! How are you to mend a _silk scarf_ ?” Sansa dropped the scarf and turned to leave. “You ruin _everything_!”

 

Lady padded out from the castle, sensing Sansa’s distress. A gentle nudge to her hand brought her back to the present. “Let’s go.” She murmured, brushing her knuckles against Lady’s muzzle.

 

The weather looked as if it might turn, but they at had enough time to go at least to the hot springs, if not a little farther. Sansa fumed as she walked, hands trembling with anger. The scarf had been a gift from one of the only merchants who had bothered to come North since she had been born. It was lovely, sapphire blue to bring out her eyes.

 

But it was more than that, Arya embarassed her with her behavior. Sansa wished that she would act like a lady just _once._ Why was it so hard for her?

 

Her fingers brushed over the pale bark of the weirwood tree. It was always her first stop before leaving the castle walls. As a child, she had always hated the way the eyes seemed to follow her--judging her every movement. The old gods had never interested her, but there was something solemn about the heart tree that reminded her of her father. Of Jon. The way that Northmen furrowed their brows in even the most jovial situations. Why couldn’t they just smile like everyone else?

 

The hair on the back of Lady’s neck rose, and Sansa felt a chill in the air. Her mother’s words came to her then, and a wave of guilt washed over her. _Do not go into the forest alone,_ Catelyn had said. _Men are selfish creatures, and will do what they can for a bit of gold._ Rarely did she disobey her mother, but the forest beyond the castle walls was so _pretty_ just before it rained. The summer rains were coming less and less frequently. They were quickly approaching fall, and she intended to make the most of it.

 

Her favorite part of summer was the flowers. They littered the floor of the grove, dotting the green with hints of blues and yellows. She bent down to pick one when she saw a flash of grey out of the corner of her eye. “Lady?” The direwolf was off, chasing something that she couldn’t see.

 

“No! _Lady!”_ Sansa picked up her skirts and started running. “Lady! _Lady come back_!” Her voice was swallowed by the leaves above her.

 

Lady continued on her path, loping easily over the underbrush. At that moment, Sansa wished she was a wolf too--all lithe muscle and easy steps--so she could keep up with her wolf. As it was, she was not a wolf, and the forest floor was uneven. One wrong step, and she was crying out in pain, face to face with the dirt and mold.

 

Her ankle was throbbing, and she knew immediately what that meant. Arya had broken her ankle enough times for her to know the signs. _Am I going to die out here?_ Sansa glanced around, looking for _anything_ familiar. Lady was already out of sight, and she didn’t see anything that would tell her how to get back.

 

She pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned against the tree whose root had tripped her. _What if someone finds me, someone who means to do me harm?_ Her hands worried at her skirts. _I stick out like a sore thumb._ Tears pricked at her eyelids. “Seven save me,” she whispered. “What have I _done?_ ”  

 

The hours dragged on, marked by the shadows falling on the forest floor. Sansa curled up against the tree, hair brushing against the leaves. When she was a child, she had been terrified of thunderstorms. Her mother would take her into her arms and rock her gently, singing her songs that she had heard back home in Riverrun. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the shifting winds that were making the leaves tremble above her.

 

The rain was coming. Robb had taught her how to tell by watching the way the leaves flipped. It was meant to comfort her, but now it frightened her. What if she was stuck out in the storm and no one came looking for her? Mother and father were busy with their duties, but surely someone would realize she was missing.

 

The rain came down hard, but the cover of the trees kept her dry for the most part. The wind was whistling through the trees, and Sansa swore she heard howling coming from the darkness. It was so cold, and the ground was so rough. She wished Lady would reappear.

 

“ _Sansa_!” Was she dreaming? Tales of Grumkins and Snarks came to her then. If direwolves were real was it possible they were too? How would they know her name? She lifted her head just slightly, eyes scanning the forest for any sign of disturbance. How she wished she were Lady, who could see in the dim light of the night.

 

“ _Sansa_!” But she couldn’t be dreaming, because there was a light flickering, and she felt something wet press against her face. “Sansa, are you hurt?”

 

“Jon?” Ghost was licking her in earnest, tongue scraping against her cheek. “My ankle…” She sat up and winced. “I tripped on a root. Lady… Lady is out there somewhere.”

 

Jon’s face came into view, dark hair outlined by the torch in his hand. “No, she’s here.” He nodded to his left, where Lady was observing the scene, intelligent eyes scanning Sansa’s form earnestly. “I’m going to have to carry you.”

 

Sansa bit her lip to keep the retort from surfacing. _I don’t need your help,_ she wanted to say. But she _did_ need his help, there was no way she could make it out of the forest without him; yet there was a part of her who wanted to push away. “Okay,” she said instead.

 

“Can you carry the torch?” She nodded, and he passed it to her without another word. “I am going to have to mend this as best as I can.” He glanced around, picking up a few sticks before tearing off part of his under tunic. Delicately, he coaxed her leg out from under her and placed the sticks around her ankle. She tried not let her discomfort show on her face, but she couldn’t help but wince when he wrapped her ankle with the cloth. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For finding me.”

 

He looked at her for a long while, so long that she was starting to wonder if he heard her. Jon looked so much like father, all grey eyes and seriousness. She hadn’t ever really noticed how long his eyelashes were, they fanned his cheekbones when he blinked. “It isn’t like you to do something so reckless.”

 

“Arya and I got into a fight.” Sansa turned away, a funny feeling blooming in the pit of her stomach.

 

“How unlike you two.” Jon’s eyes shined in the torchlight.

 

“Was that a joke?”

 

Jon’s lips turned down before dipping back up, that sad, northern smile. “Did it cheer you up?”

 

“It might’ve.” He tucked his arms under her and brought her up to his chest, carefully avoiding the flames from the torch.

 

“If only you were more like Bran, at least he has the sense to stay within the castle walls.”

 

Sansa made a face. “Lady just started running, I had to go after her.”

 

“Perhaps you should train her properly.”

 

“She’s more well behaved than Ghost!” He chuckled, the vibrations rippling through her arms. “It’s true!”

 

“Ghost doesn’t run off in the woods at night.”

 

“Well, it wasn’t nighttime when she ran off.”

 

“Sansa,” he was exasperated, she could tell. “If Ghost hadn’t sensed something was wrong, I wouldn’t have found you. It’s dangerous, and you are a lady.”

 

“I know that.” She wanted to sound mature, and maybe a little snarky, but she could never quite manage it with her brothers.

 

“You got lucky, but luck runs out.” Jon shifted her in his arms, so her face was pressed against his neck. She took a deep breath, body relaxing at the familiar smell.

 

The rain was falling harder now, and Jon was having to pick his way around puddles and slick spots of mud. There was no way she would’ve been able to get home on her own, even without her broken ankle. She lifted her free hand so she could wrap it around his neck to secure herself. The swaying of his steps was lulling her into a peaceful daze. She dreamt of her warm bed, and the lemoncakes she was sure she could coax out of the kitchen.

 

Mother would be furious if she knew about her excursion. “Jon, promise me…” she murmured. “Promise you won’t tell mother and father. Please.”

 

She felt him nod against her head. “You have to promise me next time you are cross with Arya you’ll think more clearly.”

 

“Okay,” she murmured. “Fine.”

 

In the morning she would worry about what she would tell Septa and her parents. Perhaps she would tell them she tripped on the steps--it made no matter, she was safe now. Jon carried her all the way up to her room, and even though it was hundreds of steps he didn’t complain once. She felt his breaths, uneven and labored against her chest, until he set her down gently in her bed.

 

“Jon,” Sansa whispered, hand grabbing for his. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”

 

He looked apprehensive, but nodded all the same. “You need to rest.”

 

“You sound like Old Nan.”

 

“Shh,” he made to pull his hand away, but she only gripped it tighter.

 

“I have to get out of this dress,” she glanced down at her ruined gown. It was soaking wet, and she was sure there was mud spattered all over the back. “I need you to help me.”

 

He looked from her to the gown before nodding. “What do I do?”

 

“Help me unlace it.” She guided his hands to her laces. His fingers were stiff and inexpert, but it did the trick. Her hands finished the rest, dragging the dress down her body until she was free from it. She used her good leg to kick it off, and then turned to him expectantly. “Can you help me get under the furs?” It was getting colder at night, cold enough to burrow into her blankets. He picked her up and slid her under, careful to avoid her ankle. “Thank you.” She murmured.

 

“Go to sleep.” He whispered.

 

“Goodnight Jon.”

 

“Goodnight Sansa.”


	3. Jon

It had been Ghost who had led Jon to Sansa. At first he thought it was the storm, but Ghost must have sensed Lady’s distress. Maybe it was just pack instinct, but at night Jon could feel it too, how all six of them were connected.

Jon wasn’t fond of making promises he couldn’t keep, so when he nodded along with Sansa’s request not to tell anyone about how she got lost in the woods he fully intended to honour her request, however unreasonable it was. There was something about Sansa that was so ladylike and proper that seemed to vest her with an authority she didn’t possess.

That half the castle hadn’t been searching for her was only a matter of peculiar circumstance — Lord Stark and most of the household staff had left for White Harbour for a moon’s turn this afternoon. Sansa was frazzled and scared, but hadn’t been gone long. So he tucked her into bed and left her to come up with whatever lie she would use to excuse her broken ankle.

Jon closes Sansa’s door as delicately as possible, but when he turns his stepmother is glaring at him. Lady Stark purses her lips. She has always eyed him with distaste, when she has even deigned to look his way at all.

“What are you doing here?” Lady Stark asks, the question she’s been asking in one way or another Jon’s entire life. Jon can’t blame her — he has no place here, not at Winterfell, and certainly not in Lady Sansa’s bedroom.

Jon stiffens. “Sansa fell and I helped her to her bed. She couldn’t walk.”

“My daughter can’t walk? And you didn’t fetch me or Maester Luwin?”

Sometimes Jon wondered if he could do anything right. Certainly he couldn’t in her eyes. That was a lesson he’d long since learned. Once he’d wanted nothing more than to impress his stepmother, but now he focuses only on keeping his word. He may not be bound to his siblings by name, but they were bound by blood. They were a pack, and Jon Snow was a loyal beast.

But Lady Stark’s questions were rhetorical anyway, she had deemed him guilty a long time ago.

She sighs and pushes open the door to Sansa’s chambers.

“Make yourself useful and fetch Maester Luwin,” she says over her shoulder, her narrowed eyes glimmering in the faint candlelight.

Jon does as he’s bid, navigating the halls by dim torchlight. He knows this castle like the back of his hand. He and Robb had learned to roam the castle in the darkness when they were still boys, sneaking into their sisters’ rooms and pretending to be ghosts or down to the kitchens for a second helping of dessert.

By now, everyone who remained in the castle has long since retired. He’s grateful for the peace and quiet and the presence of mind it brings. He had a decision to make and Robb’s absence made it easier to think about his prospects rationally. His brother was his closest friend, but Jon couldn’t let himself think he was Robb Stark’s equal.

Jon had been a constant presence at Winterfell, but he had no true place here. He had no place anywhere, not really. He’d oft dreamed of riding north and taking the black. When he was a boy he’d imagined himself as Aemon the Dragonknight or Ser Ryam Redwyne. But he was bastard born, ill-suited for knighthood no matter how many times he bested Robb. At The Wall he had a chance for glory, to protect the realm from savages or whatever else was hidden beneath the snow.

Long ago, father had convinced him it was merely youthful folly. But Jon was a man grown now. He still craved purpose. He had been happy here, despite Lady Stark, despite always living in Robb’s shadow. And summer was quickly fading. Soon Arya would be married and sent away, and before long Robb would rise to Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Jon knocks on the door of Maester Luwin’s chambers and a few minutes later the old man peaks his head out, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

“I hate to disturb you, maester, but I think Sansa’s broken her ankle.”

The maester comes at once. Jon tries to skulk back to his bedroom, but it seems he is not to be spared. “This way, Master Snow,” Maester Luwin calls after him when he attempts to duck down the servant’s stairs.

Jon hasn’t the will to disobey a direct order and so he sticks close to Maester Luwin.

“How did it happen?”

“I’m... It all happened so fast...” Jon replies lamely. “Lady Stark is tending to her now.”

Having proven himself useless for anything more than torch bearing, Jon is not asked any further questions and the pair of them travel to Sansa’s room in silence.

Lady Stark glares at Jon as soon as he enters his sister’s chambers, and Jon turns to leave, but before he makes his escape Sansa calls out, “thank you, Jon.”

Jon turns back and Sansa is smiling the gentlest of smiles.

He has no words for her, at least none he can think of in the presence of her mother, so he forces his lips into a smile and reciprocates the gesture.

There is a sparkle in Sansa’s eye, one he hadn’t seen since they were children. At least, not directed at him. He supposed Robb or Jeyne Poole could always manage to coax a grin out of her. And though it was nice to see the corner of her eyes crinkle in silent acknowledgement of their shared secret, he could feel something foreboding tighten in the pit of his stomach.

Halfway down the hall he hears Sansa groan, “mother, it wasn’t his fault!”

He smiles once more. He knows better than to think any such protest would do any good, but he can’t remember Sansa ever defending him. But sweet as it may be, something about the tone of her voice unnerves him.

It’s a restlessness that stays with him even after he returns to his chambers and dons his nightclothes.

Jon tries his best to fall asleep but he can’t seem to make himself comfortable. He takes himself in hand. He doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s in the middle of it. The image of Sansa’s smile comes to him unbidden, the feeling of her weight in his arms, undoing the laces of her corset... and then the thought of slipping her dress over her shoulders, of her hips bucking up into his...

There had been a woman once. A winter town whore, standing naked and willing before him. A gift from Theon, Jon had been urged on by Robb over pints at the pub. He’d gone upstairs full of bravado but he hadn’t been able to go through with it in the end. He hadn’t done anything more than kiss her, not that he’d told anyone. He’d oft thought of the bounce of her bosom in the passing years.

But she hadn’t been half as tempting as the thought of his sister underneath him.

The shame comes only upon spending in his hand, as he reaches for his handkerchief to clean himself.

Sansa was the comeliest girl at Winterfell by far, the comeliest girl he had laid eyes upon, but she was his sister. It was against the laws of god and men. Usually he’d imagine a kitchen maid or perhaps a girl from the village, but he’d never peaked like this before.

As he swallows down the guilt he realizes this has made up his mind.

He’d tell father and Robb when they returned from White Harbour. He would ride north and pledge his life and what little honour he had to the Night’s Watch. He’d do his best to avoid Sansa until then, not that it would be hard. Today was an anomaly, his sister was not particularly fond of him.


End file.
